End Of Messages
by Mellaithwen
Summary: 2x10 Hunted Missing Scene. Dean looks for his little brother.


**End Of Messages.**

**By Mellaithwen**

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**Rating: T**

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**Genre: Angst/Drama**

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**Disclaimer: The CW owns them. Mistakes are my own. **

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**Summary: 2x10 Hunted Missing Scene. Dean looks for his little brother. **

* * *

Dean's at a complete loss and it's one of the worst feelings in the world.

He knows to wake up in the morning, he knows to eat and breathe (not necessarily in that order) and he know that tomorrow he and Sam will have to talk.

Dean remembers the tantrums his little brother could throw in their younger days, only now he's taller and lot angrier—carrying a lot more shit on his shoulders than he did back then.

Not to mention he's ever so slightly, psychic.

Dean knows that tomorrow he and Sam will have to talk.

But _god, _he's not looking forward to it.

* * *

Dean stands there nonchalant and tells his brother it doesn't scare him. He stands in doorways in the dark and says no, he isn't afraid, this doesn't freak him out. He's apt to handle this, ready to face it head on. He can do this, he can save his brother.

But what if he can't?

What if...what if he can't and it's up to him to do what his father asked? What his father never should have asked...

He took care of his brother; he raised him when his father couldn't. He was as much a parent as a brother and god he loves him, so much. So how the hell can he be expected to just...

_It's on you Dean._

Just gotta save him, that's all. Save Sam and everything's fine. Everyone's happy and the demon can go fuck himself.

Just gotta save Sam.

Save his kid brother who he's been protecting since he was four. The same one who used to be cautious that's now hell bent on looking for trouble. Finding the demon, finding out what the hell they're supposed to do, what the hell he's supposed to become.

Dark side?

Yeah, that's one way to put it.

But there's no way to know. John didn't tell Dean the whole story and whatever snippets the damn demon told them in taunting isn't enough to make sense of. _Plans_. That's all.

Whatever the hell that means.

* * *

Sam's asleep on the bed next to him. He's had another two beers since they left the picturesque pier and drove through awkwardness until they reached this week's motel. The younger brother alternated from staring out the window and turning up the radio, more and more until their ears shook. Dean didn't mind the sound; he just wished Sam wasn't cranking up the volume to drown out any apologies.

He wished he could say something that would make it better. Convince his brother that he'd never hurt him, god, he wouldn't ever dare.

He wished he could do something more than drive. But he can't, he just can't.

He hasn't worked it out yet, and he has no idea where to start.

Sam won't leave, won't try running, won't take a break and shag ass to Amsterdam or somewhere equally as _far_.

If someone asked him if he could take his own to save his brother's, he would. In a heartbeat, he'd push Sam out the way and take the blow with his head held high. Martyr. Idiot. Brother.

But there's no obvious threat. The demon won't kill Sam, if anything; it'll kill Dean to get to Sam.

_So I've just gotta stick around, if I stay then nothing can happen to Sam, he won't...he won't chance, he'll be fine._

Everything will be fine.

But now what?

It's barely past midnight and the room is as quiet as can be. Two men in their twenties walking around like old men because the bruises won't fade and the stinging won't dissipate. Weighed down by lies—because yeah, a lie by omission is still lying.

He falls back on the covers in a fitful sleep so wrought with his own nightmares of doing what his father told him to do, that he never even hears his brother leave.

* * *

He wakes up suddenly, but he can't remember why and the moment his eyes open; he wants to close them again. Awareness comes slowly as he pads across the motel floor, vaguely noticing that he's still wearing his boots. And his jeans. And his shirt, and his black jacket.

He makes his way to the bathroom telling himself that soon Sam will be back with coffee. 'Cause clearly the kid's already left. He grumbles in discomfort at his horribly dry throat and his neck is screaming after the awkward sleep he's finally woken from.

He cups the water in his hands and splashes his face repeatedly. He lets the water wash away the grimy crap in the corner of his eyes; lets the cold rush wake him the fuck up because he has to talk to Sam. They have to work this out; they have to talk it out. Every issue, now, they can only sort it out if they trust each other to sort it out.

He stops his stride back into the room mid-yawn when he sees the blinking time on the bedside clock. Alarm switched off.

It's gone eleven. Far gone, so much so, that in a few minutes it'll be way past mid-day.

Sam never sleeps in.

Hell, the kid could never stay still for longer than three hours, which means he's been gone for too long, far too long. Sam would have woken his brother up regardless of yesterday's misgivings. He would have woken him up. He would have yelled and thrown pillows, maybe even tried to smother his older sibling...he wouldn't leave him to sleep in.

Not with all of the unspoken words hanging listlessly, waiting to be said, mumbled, rattled away...

_You told him you'd kill him, he knows you can't save him; he knows you're a failure, he ditched you, Dean. He ditched you. He left you, again. Just like everyone does. Always alone. _

"Shit," Dean mutters, grabbing his own duffel and wondering where the hell Sam is.

"Shit, shit, _shit_." He checks the room from corner to corner and looks in the Impala twice. There's nothing in that car Dean can't find, so if he can't find Sam, or his stuff, it means it isn't there.

It means, Sam isn't there.

It means Sam's gone.

The kid wouldn't take his things for a walk through town. He wouldn't clean the room of everything he owned. He wouldn't clean the room full stop unless they'd traipsed blood and guts through and he felt moderately guilty.

No, but this was...it wasn't right. There was nothing here. No laptop. No phone, no memories stuffed in an orderly fashion...

"Shit."

Dean runs his fingers through his mussed hair and takes off in search of his brother.

* * *

"_Wait for the beep my ass, Sammy. Where the hell are you? You can't just take off in the middle of the night; you're acting like a spoilt brat. Phone the fuck back, idiot."_

* * *

He tries Sam's number a thousand times until his fingers shake and he can't discern the numbers anymore and he's dialling whatever the fuck he can.

The first couple of hundred times the ringing kept going, on and on and on.

Now?

He's got the phone pressed up against his ear but it's his chest that hurts when he hears the cruel click of a rejected call. The voicemail doesn't kick in anymore. The inbox is full of Dean's bellowing voice telling him to phone _the fuck back or else_.

When he gets to back to the car, sits in the driver's seat and takes a deep breath, he picks up his phone again.

He's already tried Sam's cell about a thousand times. Getting either voicemail or a rejected tone. A beep is all his brother's willing to give him.

He's already checked the trunk, shotgun or two missing, enough to keep you alive, enough to not leave Dean stranded. Hell, he'd have to take a hell of a lot of weapons to leave his brother completely defenceless. Including the guy's fists.

He's checked in town, checked in the motel office as he then checks out.

He drives around in obvious places, keeps in view in case Sam just went wandering and lost track of time. Yeah, right.

* * *

"_You think this is funny or something? That it? You wanna scare the shit outta me? Fine! See if I care..._

_...Just..._

_Where are you Sammy?"_

* * *

Half the names in Dean's cell phone's address book don't work anymore. The numbers either ring into infinity with the caller ID showing _Winchester_ and prompting hunters to ignore or they're discontinued due to the owner being deceased.

Seldom are they answered anymore. Not worth the hassle, their name has practically been blacklisted as a death omen. Too many have died from just knowing their names and the rest just don't have the energy to risk it anymore.

There's few Dean doesn't dare call. He doesn't want to hear a tragic voicemail or a robotic reply. He doesn't want to be ignored and left hanging on the line. He doesn't want to be _rejected_.

"Bobby?"

The dialling tone barely lasted a second before the relieved click.

"Dean? That you?"

"Yeah, um, look has Sam called or anything, is he there?"

Despite knowing that even with a stolen vehicle and the anger inside; Sam could never have made it that far already, Dean still has to ask.

"You boys have a fight?" He makes it sound so trivial.

"Has he called you?" Dean ignores him and Bobby sighs.

"No, Dean, he hasn't. What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah...no. Um, look I gotta go, if Sam calls—"

"What's going on Dean?" Bobby practically bellows down the phone.

Can't ask for help if you're not willing to tell.

"He's gone—"

"Gone? Was it the de—"

"No. He wasn't _taken_...I'd know if he was..." Dean sighed. "He just left. If he gets in touch, let me know, okay?" His tone switches from indecision to abruptness so fast that Bobby can't think of anything else to say.

"Sure thing, Dean."

* * *

"_Sam? Answer the phone Sam, dude I'm not fucking around here, answer the fucking phone Sammy, god just...what kind of, god, just answer the god damned fucking phone!"_

* * *

Finally, he calls the Roadhouse. A part of him put it off this long to avoid hearing Sam on the other line. Finding out that his brother would rather be there with practically strangers than with his own brother. A part of him doesn't want to hear Ellen's reaction, unsure of where she stood on hating them.

He can still hear Jo's words after all. She was quick enough to judge, and surely Ellen must know more...

But she was a good woman, she wouldn't lie.

Would she?

No.

Good job his mind is made up because he's already dialled, waiting for a pick-up. When she does, he can hear the hustle and bustle of the bar behind her voice. She's shouting a little and Dean has to shout back. His words more reiterated when bouncing off of the closed windows of the Impala.

"Is Sam with you? Has he talked to you? Called you? Anything?"

He hasn't, and just like Bobby, Ellen wants to know what's going on. Dean doesn't want to be forthcoming, he doesn't want to say that the both of them are hanging on by a thread and they had a fight and Sam took off.

He says a little, but he never elaborates, never goes into detail. The gist of it is lost, and Ellen sighs sadly. She knows the dangers now, almost as well as Dean. She knows the possibilities. The fear.

"If he drops in you'll be the first person I call, Dean."

He thanks her graciously and pauses before hanging up, hoping to hear some tell tale sign in the background that maybe Sam's already there. It won't be the last time he'll call, that's for sure.

* * *

"_Sam? I know this is messed up, but you've gotta come back. Just...please. Answer the phone, man, just answer the phone."_

_Beeep._

_End of messages._

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**_-Fin._**

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